Tiny woman.
Soft, full hair
beige blonde.
Seated at our table,
at first glance
looks fifty.
I think she's used to
no conversation;
responds when we begin.
We ask how long
she's been here.
'Do you know,' she says,
'I think it's four months ...
I can't be certain.'
Her son works
in the kitchen.
She can see him
sometimes.
Used to live
by water, misses
her house ... voice
trails wistfully,
eyes grow distant.
[Poem #93]
Cross-posted from my poetry blog: The Passionate Crone, where it was submitted for dVerse Open Link Night #49
This began as a game some bloggers played in 2008, to write about people who'd made an impact, in the same number of words as one's age, every day for a year. I did them less often and went on longer, adding one word each birthday. I stopped in 2016 and incorporated them into my main poetry blog. In 2019 I resumed the project and gave it its own blog again, with a new name, where it may unfold at its own (slow, intermittent, lapsing and resuming) pace. I've labelled these verse portraits, but they're more like quick sketches: mere glimpses, impressions....
Showing posts with label NURSING HOME. Show all posts
Showing posts with label NURSING HOME. Show all posts
Sunday, 17 June 2012
Saturday, 2 June 2012
Nursing Home: Marjorie
1 Meeting
‘Another author!’
The Activities Officer
delightedly introduces
someone Andrew can talk to.
But it’s me who’s interested.
Marjorie, my mother’s name.
And her book, that she clutches
and displays, recounts
her childhood in India.
My mother was a child there too.
Still pretty, she’s also gracious:
beautiful English manners
from the last days of the Raj.
Like Mum again —
but this Marjorie
was legitimate Officer stock,
not a little Anglo-Indian girl.
2 Getting acquainted
She shows me a baby photo,
her family’s newest; can’t quite
explain where he fits.
And her son is a writer
(I know the name).
She describes his home,
which she visits. Sure enough,
on Mother’s Day she’s missing;
they must have taken her out.
She asks about my writing,
double-checks
that man’s my husband,
a writer too. I think
of giving her our books.
But I never see her read.
Cross-posted from my poetry blog The Passionate Crone, from whence it was submitted to Poetry Pantry #101 at Poets United.
[Poem #92]
‘Another author!’
The Activities Officer
delightedly introduces
someone Andrew can talk to.
But it’s me who’s interested.
Marjorie, my mother’s name.
And her book, that she clutches
and displays, recounts
her childhood in India.
My mother was a child there too.
Still pretty, she’s also gracious:
beautiful English manners
from the last days of the Raj.
Like Mum again —
but this Marjorie
was legitimate Officer stock,
not a little Anglo-Indian girl.
2 Getting acquainted
She shows me a baby photo,
her family’s newest; can’t quite
explain where he fits.
And her son is a writer
(I know the name).
She describes his home,
which she visits. Sure enough,
on Mother’s Day she’s missing;
they must have taken her out.
She asks about my writing,
double-checks
that man’s my husband,
a writer too. I think
of giving her our books.
But I never see her read.
Cross-posted from my poetry blog The Passionate Crone, from whence it was submitted to Poetry Pantry #101 at Poets United.
[Poem #92]
Thursday, 31 May 2012
Nursing Home: Keith
He’s thin and slighty stooped
but the grey hair’s thick and wavy
and he moves at normal speed —
except when he’s with her.
Holding her hand
or arm around her
he leads her to meals
or out to the sunny garden.
She turns to him
a gentle, vacant face.
He greets us cheerily,
eyes full of comprehension.
We realise he lives here
to be with her.
He looks happy.
So does she.
Cross-posted from my poetry blog, The Passionate Crone, from whence it is submitted to Poetry Pantry #101 at Poets United.
[Poem #91]
Nursing Home: Bobbi
Bobbi walks quickly
along the corridors,
keeping to the edges.
One day she tells me,
whispering:
‘I hurt my hip. Now
I have to keep walking
or it seizes up.
I feel conspicuous
and embarrassed.’
She is slim
in her neat slacks
and cardigan,
sweet face framed
by a short pageboy.
Her eyes widen
a moment and I glimpse
fear, want to hug her
but will not intrude
on her frail dignity.
Cross-posted from my poetry blog, The Passionate Crone, from whence it is submitted to Poetry Pantry #101 at Poets United.
[Poem #90]
Cross-posted from my poetry blog, The Passionate Crone, from whence it is submitted to Poetry Pantry #101 at Poets United.
[Poem #90]
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